The Faithful
by Nocturnallydamned
Summary: Kain is betrayed by his own followers and sets out to raise his Lieutenants. Final Chapter up at last.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: All characters, locations etc from Legacy of Kain are property of Eidos Interactive / Crystal Dynamics.  
  
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I awoke with a fierce start, the bedsheet torn and twisted between my claws, and a scream of rage and terror on my lips. By and by the misted, blood-soaked terraces upon which I had fought my last doomed duel faded, to be replaced by the more mundane images of wooden furniture, silvered now in the light of the waning moon.  
  
I had dreamed of the battle again.  
  
It had been close on a hundred years since I woke from my enforced slumber; a hundred years since I wrought vengeance on the alien usurper who cut me down; a hundred years of that same accursed nightmare. I took a moment to gather my thoughts before rising and leaving my bed to stretch and shake the day's lethargy from my limbs. Already the need for sustenance was forcing the memories of the dream into the darker recesses of my mind, suppressing them beneath growing pangs of need. I approached the window and threw wide the double doors to the balcony, drinking deep of the chill night air, electrified now with the prospect of a hunt.  
  
Below me, in the streets of Meridian, humans walked free and unmolested through the narrow cobbled streets. I raised my lip into a sneering curl: they were cattle, and the city merely the pen in which I kept them until hunger struck. I let out a low laugh, spiced with malice, that resounded hollowly from the crumbling walls that faced my window. The street quickly emptied.  
  
Abruptly, my shoulders slumped. It was not enough. Not enough that I had the mortal populace caught in a comfortable web of complacency and ignorance; not enough that my armies grew by the day; not enough that I held half of Meridian from my seat of power. The dream still haunted my mind while I slumbered by day, and the visible remnants of His Empire galled me incessantly while I hunted and plotted by night. His residual presence made my teeth grind and my innards churn, and, if I were honest with myself, I knew I would not truly be free of His legacy until I had exorcised the last of His memory from the land.  
  
The 'Sarafan Lord'. Even dead and defeated, he consistently thwarted my plans.  
  
Since his downfall at my hands, his followers had been drastically reduced in number: many had found other callings with longer life-expectancies, while others had chosen take their own lives - for fear of death at our hands. Despite this twin cull, still they flourished beyond the boundaries of my influence, sequestered in lofty citadels and dank underground runs. Those who survived and remained loyal to His cause cared not where they made base: they were driven, even as they had been under His command, by a holy sanction, and a fanatical devotion to their cause that made my own kind seem fickle and faithless by comparison.  
  
The keen edge of the Thirst put such depressing thoughts into perspective: my first priority was to secure myself a meal. Later, when my hunger was sated and my thoughts focused, I would gather together the oldest and most trusted of my allies to discuss our next manoeuvre. With my mind made up, I leaped up to crouch momentarily on the balcony-rail outside my chambers, my eyes ready to latch on to the slightest movement in the inky depths of the alleyway below.  
  
Contact!  
  
As an eagle sights a field mouse from hundreds of feet in the air, so we too are able to track our human prey from long distances, and once the sighting has been made, it is only a matter of brief, bloody seconds before the kill. Tonight was no exception. I emerged from the alleyway into the soft glow of the streetlamps, one of the few remnants of His rule that I welcomed; the diffuse amber light masked the colour of our skin, softened the harshness of our features, and enabled us to walk unseen amongst our livestock.  
  
Presently, I turned my footsteps to one of the less salubrious areas of town, thinking to roust up some sport in a gambling den which had recently come to my attention. As I traversed the city, I gave the eastern quarter a wide berth; though my truce with Vorador had not lasted longer than I had need of him, still both his followers and mine lived and thrived in Meridian. We maintained an uneasy co-existence, and although we had designated certain areas of the city as 'neutral ground', still only a great fool would tempt fate. For the moment at least, we respected each others' territorial boundaries.  
  
The 'Crocked Dice' tavern was well hidden, and in fact I would have had great difficulty in locating it had it not been for the over-loud, boastful tones of one of my latest recruits. I had since taught him the meaning of silence. I chuckled to myself at the recollection as I approached, and shortly bent to peer in through one dusty, begrimed windowpane at the evening's offerings. As I had expected, my use of the word 'tavern' in describing this place had been excessively kind. A rough wooden table and a lone, battered ale-barrel stood against one wall, the table itself littered with filthy drinking vessels. A small number of trestles were spaced about the room, and a smattering of low, rickety stools and barrel tops made up the remainder of the furniture.  
  
I was about to throw open the door and make my presence known when one of the patrons half-turned his face to the window in conversation. I recognised him instantly as Tomas, whom I myself had turned not three days past. That he should have been on duty bothered me less than the fact that he was accompanied by two of my older guard – both of whom should have known better. My eyes narrowed: this dereliction of duty would not go unpunished. Just as I was about to make an even grander and more ferocious entrance, I caught sight of the small gathering of humans with whom they were conversing, and I froze as though rooted to the spot. Each of them was a knight in the full prime of his life; each was dressed in gleaming armour, and all bore the hated sigil of my one-time nemesis.  
  
Sarafan!  
  
My own troops were consorting with Sarafan knights! The fury that gripped me nearly sent me hurtling through the window to tear the throats from both humans and vampires; but with age comes wisdom, and the voice of sanity stayed my rash impulse. They were ten and I was but one, and where such odds would not normally deter me, three were my own trained soldiers, and the rest professional killers of my kind, armed with deadly crossbows. Instead, I strained my senses past the barriers of stone, wood and glass that separated me from the objects of my ire, and strove to discern the topic of conversation.  
  
Klaus, the eldest of my treacherous kin, was in the act of leaning across and muttering an accord to the humans' waiting ears:  
  
'We will do as you suggest. You will be permitted access to the mansion in the hours of daylight, and a clear path will be laid to guide you to his chambers. We will ensure that all doors are made open to you.' He cast a sly grin at his companions.  
  
'Oh, to be there when death finally claims him while he lies abed!'  
  
His wish brought an answering chorus of malignant laughter from his two undead compatriots. I ground my teeth, but remained outside, intent on finding out anything that might be advantageous.  
  
It was Ivan, the third of the treacherous little trio who spoke next, leaning forward to whisper his words with hope in his wide, golden eyes.  
  
'So, is it true? Do the Sarafan truly hold a cure?'  
  
My brows knitted together in consternation. Could it be? Had the Sarafan found a way to reverse the effects of vampirism? More importantly, though, were my men really so discontent with their lot that they would reject their very nature? A cold, pious voice cut across my thoughts.  
  
'We can heal and cleanse the deconsecrated flesh, brother,' affirmed one, a sanctimonious smile lighting his face.  
  
I laughed low in my throat. I was almost tempted to leave these betrayers to their 'cleansing' at Sarafan hands – the ignorant fools obviously had no idea of the extent of these men's fanaticism. But it was not fated to happen yet – the knights would allow my men to live so that they could open the doors for my would-be murderers. With a decisive nod, I turned my back on the tavern and stalked towards my house. I had preparations to make.  
  
Ivan, Klaus and Tomas arrived back a little under an hour later to find me lounging on my makeshift throne, waiting for them. They were evidently surprised to find me there – although this was to be expected. It was my custom to take a goblet or two of blood wine in the early hours, and, with suspicion ruling my thoughts, I had discovered the sleeping-draught before I had even sampled it. The dissent had spread farther than I had thought.  
  
'My Lord,' stammered Ivan, quickly striding forward to kneel at my feet. 'My apologies for our absence, but...'  
  
'Silence, dog!'  
  
Ivan's eyes widened, and his companions took a couple of hasty steps to stand beside him, each dropping to their knees to show their false contrition. I sneered at their vain attempts.  
  
'Sire, there were matters in the slums that demanded our immediate attention,' explained Klaus, his attention riveted on the curves of the blade that gleamed as always from its cradle in my fist.  
  
'Is that so?'  
  
Tomas piped up: 'Yes, my Lord. There were – er – some humans – who ah...'  
  
'At least lie quickly!' I snapped.  
  
The three looked at each other nervously, unsure as to the wisest course of action, until at last Tomas' eyes picked out the nearest of the bodies.  
  
I savoured their growing horror as the realisation swept over them; their ill-conceived little plan was discovered; their allies destroyed; their would-be victim pre-warned. As I drew myself to my full height, the Soul Reaver grasped securely in my claw, I wondered which would be the first of them to bolt.  
  
Tomas ran first: he had had a close-up view of the mess I had made of the deceitful harlot who had tried to drug me, and was in no hurry to feel my blade for himself. I let him run. It was more important for now that I deal with those who had served me longest, only to turn on me at the last.  
  
I did not mention that I had seen them in the company of the Sarafan host. I did not need to.  
  
'You asked them for a cure,' I accused.  
  
Neither of them replied, instead remaining on their knees before me, quivering in fear. No doubt they recognised the impropriety of their actions now. Too late.  
  
'What I have given you is not a disease, it is a gift, a divine blessing from the Dark Gods.' My voice rose along with my conviction at every phrase, and I strode forward, lowering the Reaver until it swung before their faces, a mirrored embodiment of death.  
  
'I made you immortal, invincible – and this is how you repay me – by plotting my demise?'  
  
Still neither dared answer. I chuckled inwardly.  
  
'Do you truly wish this cure so much?' I asked, my voice laden with concern now, a tone I practiced for just such occasions.  
  
'Very well, I release you.'  
  
'Thank you, Sire,' began Klaus. He stopped short as I thrust the Reaver through his black heart, twisting it as I did so to ensure full, devastating effect of the curved blade.  
  
Ivan stared at his comrade's body and slowly drew his sword, looking up at me with confusion and distress on his face.  
  
I tutted and shook my head before leaping on my old ally and tearing him apart with my bare hands. Such was the nature of our former friendship that I felt the use of the Reaver to be a little impersonal in his case. I rose minutes later, drenched in gore and the fresh-spilt blood of my betrayer kin, and sought the last of my vampire children. The mansion was already a tomb, newly filled with the corpses of all those I had trusted and nurtured through the years. The carpets in the marble-floored halls and richly-decorated chambers were thick and heavy with blood, and my feet made squelching noises as I made for the door. I did not care. I would never return to this house – let it remain as a grisly warning to all those who would oppose me.  
  
I found Tomas hiding behind a statue near the entrance. My backhand stroke with the Reaver took off his head as I exited the building.  
  
So weak: that was the problem with the children I had made. Their flesh, stolen and mutated from the bodies of diseased villagers, was feeble to begin with. Now I had culled them all, weeded the strong along with the weak, and I intended to start fresh; for I needed allies, men I could trust, men whose flesh - whose resolve - would not falter. My thoughts turned again to the Sarafan knights, and their alluring promise to my former soldiers - and that was when inspiration struck.  
  
A few hours later, as dawn reddened the eastern sky, I stood dusting cobwebs fastidiously from my armour in the musty dank of a great tomb. I strolled slowly around the circular room, reading the names of fallen heroes, and touching each of the stone sarcophagi as though with a view to buy. In these ancient, cracked coffins lay men whose strength of purpose and dedication to their cause was the stuff of legend – and these were strengths I could take for myself. I had seen the folly of creating direct vampiric offspring: they inevitably rejected their nature and turned against me. It was time for a new strategy. I would take Sarafan blood and bone – the most dedicated and selfless of flesh – and bend it to my will. I already knew the secret of stealing corrupted souls from the Abyss. I would reanimate these sainted bodies and make of them invincible warriors - defenders of my own cause. I would take their unmatched strength and flaunt it in the faces of their distant descendants before burying them in mountains of human corpses. For a moment, the prospect delighted me, then a new thought began to take shape. Perhaps the most offensive and insidious move would be for me to conceal the truth, to keep the true origins of my new legion secret from those who would be cut down like bloody corn before their thirsting blades. A laugh burst out of my chest and echoed in a torrent of sadistic glee from the hallowed walls of the ancient crypt as I made ready to raise my new Lieutenants.  
  
I would guard the secret for the remainder of my enemies' limited, futile little lives.  
  
The Sarafan would never know that the devils who decimated their homes, defiled their womenfolk and spilled their most precious blood were the martyred saints of their own race. 


	2. Chapter 2

I had once known a man - a human - who could raise the dead.  
  
The circumstances of our meeting are of little consequence, suffice to say the Thirst had drawn me to hitherto uncharted territory in search of fresh fodder. I had tracked my quarry, following the pungent scent of fear, to one of the poorest quarters of town; and it was there, in a squalid, vermin- ridden den that I found him. His ancient frame, withered to the point of emaciation, belied the vitality that resided within. I have always been drawn to such obfuscated sources of power. With a little persuasion, he had revealed to me the intricacies of his art, as well as the arcane rites involved in the capture of souls from the underworld. All this knowledge and more was mine for the taking; in fact, he imparted much of value to me, before he died.  
  
Of course, it was well within my power to turn a live mortal, and indoctrinate him in the ways of our kind. The imbibing of our sacred blood - in the right amounts – was the more accepted way to create offspring; but the act of resurrecting a moldering corpse was beyond my own power. And so, with my recent decision to forgo my usual means, I had recalled the old mage's dying words and decided to make use of them. I had performed a certain rite on my sword, the Soul Reaver, which – if the necromancer had spoken true - would endow it with a new capacity. The imbuement would allow me to draw souls into its mystical blade, there to be stored until the same ritual in reverse allowed them egress. This done, I had journeyed to the Lake of the Dead, where the barrier between the underworld and the blighted land above was precariously thin. It was there, on the threshold of the Abyss itself, on a day wracked with the canon fire of thunderstorms, that I harvested the six souls I required.  
  
Now I stood at last in the crypt, primed and ready for my unprecedented undertaking, while the blade at my side hummed and crackled with the combined essence of the stolen souls. I strode eagerly to my first choice of sarcophagus and tore off the lid, leaving it to shatter into fragments on the floor behind me. No random choice was this! The inscription on the tarnished metal plate informed me that here lay a man who had once held the enviable title of Head Inquisitor. I uttered a low laugh: no doubt his days had been filled with the dying screams of those tortured and judged by his hand. True, the Sarafan were publicly lauded for their honourable fight against the vampire creed, but I knew better. I had seen first-hand the persecution these men had fostered. I hesitated for a moment as I assessed the state of the corpse: it was dry as dust, withered, but through some combination of the elements in the air of the tomb, he had suffered very little decomposition. Were a Sarafan zealot to witness such miraculous preservation, no doubt they would attribute it to their fallen heroes' divine goodness. I scoffed aloud at the thought.  
  
His armour was even better preserved than his skin. The arid atmospherics of the room had allowed the steel casing to remain mostly untouched by the decaying onset of rust, and even in the evening's gloom, a dim lustre could be perceived about the greaves and breastplate. With the unfamiliar sensations of enthusiasm and optimism brimming within my breast, I removed the knight's helmet. At once I noted the hollow eye-sockets, the sunken cheekbones, the withered lips, drawn back from the face with the shrinking of the skin and frozen in rictus for all eternity. Disappointment speared me. The preservation was far from perfect. With no further reason to delay, I tore off the pristine breastplate and exposed the knight's chest, still broad and muscular despite the sunken and withered state of the corpse. Raising the serpentine blade aloft, I closed my eyes and spoke aloud the words the necromancer had screamed at me in his death throes.   
  
By now, the air was beginning to crackle with static electricity, and the scent of ozone lay heavy on the overcharged atmosphere of the chamber. Hairs began to rise on the back of my neck, while the light from the dying sun outside tainted everything as though with a film of blood. As the last word rang out from the walls of the tomb, I plunged the Reaver down in a vicious, vertical stabbing motion, and embedded it deeply in the knight's chest. Immediately, the blade began to glow with a subtle fire; eldritch, arcane, hypnotic, and I soon witnessed the light spread out across the man's recumbent form, enveloping him in a halo of blue flame. With the blade still buried in his chest, I drew a claw across my own wrist and allowed the first droplets of my blood to splatter onto his face.  
  
I had not stopped to consider how this forced resurrection would affect the corpse. I did not need to - I had experienced it first-hand. When the necromancer Mortanius had raised me from the dead as a vampiric engine of vengeance, my first few moments of unlife were marked by searing, unbearable agony – and so it would be for my kin. It did occur to me however, that they had been dead far longer than I when I was raised, so I could only imagine the ordeal this first of my new progeny was undergoing. I supposed he would be in incredible pain as the desiccated lungs attempted to expand and take in air once again; as the withered heart attempted to pulse and propel blood long since dried to dust in his rotted arteries. I smiled grimly as the body, infused now with both a soul and the driving force of my own vitae, began to stir.  
  
The scream that issued from that knight's throat was raucous enough to send me staggering backwards with my hands clasped over my ears. Even in my own worst nightmares, I had heard nothing that compared to this. It was the terror-stricken clamour of a mind gone mad. It was the sound a vessel, empty of all consciousness, might make as it wakes to find itself alive with no personality to give it meaning. It was the screaming of a soul until recently unfettered, regaining awareness to find itself consigned again to a body with limitations - worse, a body that was little more than a dead husk. The twin symbionts of mind and body had not yet begun to meld.  
  
I silenced the screams with the provision of a further supply of my own blood, and, with this second draught, the animated form assumed a semblance of peace. With hindsight, I admit that I was foolhardy to think I could spare sufficient blood and energy to raise all six at the same time, but my pride, arrogance and enthusiasm drove me on regardless. In the space of the next hour, I moved to each sarcophagus in turn and performed on each of the fallen Sarafan warriors the same ritual of blood and souls. For that hour, I was omnipotent, deified, my potency boundless, until at last I stumbled towards the final coffin.  
  
The raising of the Sixth was almost my undoing. Each of the desiccated bodies had demanded the infusion of such great amounts of my own plasma that by now I could barely support myself. Stubbornly, I stood my ground, feeding the last of my new children with the last vestiges of strength that remained in my body. But it was too much – I was overcome, and with a low cry I fell to the ground at the foot of the sarcophagus.   
  
It was at this point, as I lay helpless and drained at the foot of the coffin, that they began to advance on me: six recently animated corpses, minds wiped clean of all but one consuming thought: blood. They planned - though without prescience, for their brains were yet dry in their skulls – to kill me, to tear me limb from limb in the mindless throes of the birth- bloodlust. They knew nothing but pain – and thankfully, they did not yet realize that I was its cause. I would expire at their hands. They would never know of their reanimator, nor of his grand plans for them, and they would stalk from their tomb, leaving my dismembered body to take their place.  
  
Their attack was doomed to failure before they even began!  
  
Not for nothing had I lived this long; not for nothing was my name whispered in fear in lordling's mansion and peasant's hut alike. I was prepared. With the last of my ebbing strength, I tugged at a nearby cord, and the antechamber door swung slowly open. Now, the soft whimpering of easy prey, softened further by a liberal beating, reached the ears of my newborns. As one, they turned and focused their murderous intentions on the warm, living victims that awaited them, weakened and blooded, in the next room. I watched with a great sense of accomplishment as my newest recruits stumbled past me, their eyes not yet reformed, their limbs decayed and wasted from their century-long slumber. It was my force of will, the strength which flowed in my blood alone that drove them on.  
  
Shortly, the sounds in the antechamber began to change from the low moans of those suffering light wounds to the screams of humans attacked by the very substance of nightmares. I delighted in the familiar noise of skin being slashed, in the delicious gurgling cries of victims whose throats were caught in the merciless grip of a vampire in its first feeding frenzy. I laid my head back against the sarcophagus and listened to the tumult with my eyes half-shut, as though lulled by the strains of a familiar and well- beloved aria.  
  
Presently the sounds ceased. The stench of blood and eviscerated bodies hung heavy in the air, thick and cloying like perfume. It reminded me that I also needed to replenish my reserves. I had prepared for this, too. A tug on another nearby cord raised a second gate, and my own meal stumbled out to fall headlong and land at my feet. I fed rapidly, hastened by the twin forces of hunger and danger. When I had drunk enough to enable me to scramble to my feet, I moved to lean on the doorframe so that I could take stock of the situation in the antechamber.  
  
The room was red.  
  
I had chosen well. Stooped above the steaming, mangled corpses ranged the six I had so recently raised, still rake-thin, still barely passing for humanoid – but already, in the first seconds of their rebirth, they had proven themselves worthy of my gift. Heads turned as they perceived that I was watching them, and the dimmest awareness showed on their faces: not that I was of their kind, not that I was their deliverer – but that I too was food. Food they had already been denied once since their waking.  
  
I knew that this moment was critical. Now was the time to make my superiority known. Now was the time for me to assert dominion. My ownership of this moment would dictate and define their subservience to me from now to the end of eternity. It would also determine whether or not they turned on me and tore me to shreds, as they could do if they so chose. I was still weakened from the loss of vital fluids, and they were six – six strong and ancient warriors, blind with pain and rage. My choice of words was crucial: it could spell my victory – or my demise.  
  
I drew myself to my full height and pointed imperiously to the floor at my feet.  
  
"Kneel."  
  
Brows furrowed above empty eye-sockets, fangs were bared on faces smeared with blood, and low growls rumbled throughout the chamber with the threat of deadly violence. Although the feed had not restored me to the fullness of my strength, still I knew I would be unwise to show any weakness to my newly-raised fledglings. I must project superiority, power, arrogance even. They must understand from the very beginning that I was Master here.  
  
Ignoring the warning snarls and aggressive stances of the six who faced me, I stepped forward reiterated my command in a voice that asserted that I would brook no opposition.  
  
"Kneel!"  
  
My whole world hung in the balance, the success of my plans hinged on this one moment – on whether those I had chosen could be swayed by my command.  
  
They were the longest ten seconds of my unlife. 


	3. Chapter 3

There are moments that define who and what we are; moments that shape our lives, our futures, our very beings. It is said, in fact, that it is in the times of deepest strife that we truly find ourselves - and that one interminable instant of indecision, eked out over seconds that seemed like centuries, was one such moment. What these men did next – these ragged, rotten remnants of men - was to dictate my very nature for the next thousand violent and bloody years of my life.

I knew that I had made a dangerous gamble. Until today, I had relied upon the tainted physiology of malnourished peasants: deceptively easy to create, and as quick to revolt in death as they had been in life. Now I had base material from different stock, hardy and resilient, and with the potential to be the most loyal and deadly of servants: but therein lay the problem. They were an unknown quantity. Would any inkling of their Sarafan selves remain in those withered brains, like fragments of faded graffiti on crumbling temple walls? Would a long-dormant spark of honour or allegiance send them crashing against my weakened form like a wave of justice from beyond the grave? Or would the Thirst awaken a mindless hunger in them in the form of a need for violence and bloodshed? Even if these were empty vessels that knew nothing of their former lives, nor the nature nor alignment of their former personalities, still they could be my undoing. It all hinged on that one, pivotal moment.

'Kneel.' I had ordered, and every ounce of my pride, my determination and my vanity was invested in that one word. 'Kneel.' Even as I said it, I envisioned them genuflecting before me, and I willed that vision to become a reality. They stared back at me, the faintest glimmer of purgatorial flames reddening their blank eye sockets. Faces creased in concentration as the concept of language was once again impressed upon them. They had all been soldiers, I reasoned; they had all been accustomed to following orders – it was merely a matter of reminding them of the niceties of obedience.

'Kneel.' This time, I cursed silently as the trembling that wracked my limbs approached the point of no control. The loss of blood I had endured could not possibly be balanced out by the life-force of the lone human I had drained, and already his meagre donation ebbed from my veins. Time was short, and the six would not be put off by my words for much longer. It occurred to me then in a moment of distraction and confusion that the air

itself stank of death, and I began to wonder if it was my own. It was then that I saw that two or three of the death-dealing instruments I had raised had ceased their advance, and were standing still, with their heads cocked to one side as though listening. I tensed my muscles to hide the palsied shaking, and strove to summon strength from an untouched reservoir of will. There I plumbed the depths of my belief in my own superiority.

'Kneel.'

At last the rearmost three sank slowly to the ground; unsteady but deliberate, they bent their knees and showed subservience to me. I glared at another of the revenants and spoke the word again, clear as crystal, but this time backed up with my full conviction in what I wished of him. He too sank down on one knee, his face registering a little confusion, as though his actions were something of a surprise to him. The fifth followed suit in short order, apparently not wishing to be the odd one out, and singled out as the anarchist of the group. I nodded my approval. Now only one remained standing, his skeletal frame drawn proudly erect, his head raised in continued rebuttal of my attempted mastery. I could but wonder what kind of man he had been; what deeds of valour he had accomplished; what luminaries of my race he had slaughtered. That this creature had led before I did not doubt; his tomb had been grand, his name and title carved in bold relief on heavy brass; his sarcophagus dotted with bronze ornamentation; and now here was further proof of his station. While his cohorts knelt in cowed deference behind him, he stood upright, prepared to face me as an equal.

It was not to be.

I guessed that it might be necessary to adopt a different tactic to hold sway over this one, and I approached him with as much confidence as my shaking stride would allow. I reached out to him and clasped his shoulder in a grip which, though enfeebled by my standards, could easily have crushed bone. The flesh was cold - even to my touch, and the chill of the grave clung to him like a second skin. Beneath the leathern hide, sinews and tendons twisted uneasily, like old rope under sailcloth drawn taut by a storm, and I wondered if he could even feel my hand upon him. I altered my tone, lowering the timbre and likening it to that of a well-respected teacher asking a favour.

"Kneel for me."

The brows knitted together, and the lipless mouth, drawn open against the teeth in a posthumous grimace loosed a hiss of air. The jaw muscles spasmed beneath skin so pale it was almost translucent. The creature made several jerky movements with his arms, each one the start of a classic Sarafan offensive move, but eventually, the furrows in the brow lightened, and a sort of understanding seemed to dawn. The message had been understood. The first-born of my new children dropped gracefully to one knee and bowed his head, the patchy, lank hair falling in twin curves to brush the bloodstained floor. His reawakened brethren did likewise at this signal, and I spent a long moment surveying the scene in satisfaction and relief. I had prevailed.

It was then that it struck me: this behaviour was not new. It was obvious to me as I observed their interaction that these resurrected creatures had operated in a group before, with the foremost as their leader. I had assumed that the tomb had been populated over the course of several years, the next to die in glory being sent to some other catacomb when this was filled - but I sensed now that I was wrong. They were already a tight-knit unit, and had likely fought and died together: so much the better for my purposes that they were already a well-trained and cohesive band. True, they had been harder to tame than the common stock I was used to, but that in itself augured well for their likely ferocity and longevity. Although they looked less than intimidating now, with their tattered rainment and their wasted limbs, soon they would be restored; the world would feel their presence as they did my bidding, and all would tremble at the sound of my name.

Since I had desecrated and despoiled my own mansion house and could no longer return there, I was left with something of a quandary as to where to stay. I was not about to request sanctuary from Vorador, and the list of my remaining allies - now that I had eradicated my own kin - was short indeed. Again I was reminded of the error I had made in the past in building on the work of others, and so I decided to start afresh - after all, I now had a rank of tireless devotees at my beck and call. We would start from the

ground up.

It was with a feeling of immense pride that I led those long-dead warriors out from beneath the dank earth to the dark splendour of the Nosgothic night. They followed behind me with a mix of hesitation and curiosity, and I wondered how the world had changed since they had been laid to rest. Still deprived of full vision, they stumbled between the stunted trees, relying on their newborn vampiric instincts to guide them in my wake. In those first hours, the Thirst is a searing brand that burns to the core of one's very being. It is a brand I remember only too well - even now, and it drove them to base behaviour that would be a cause of embarrassment and ridicule to them for years to come. I curled my lip half in disgust, half in amusement as they snared rodents and vermin and small nocturnal prey from the bowels of the wood, and devoured them whole - only to retch up chunks of flesh and hair that they could no longer digest. Despite their folly, the effect of the blood was abundantly clear; already one or two had regained their sight, the eyeballs reforming in the bare sockets like plump mushrooms blooming under midnight skies, and glistening with dew.

We took up the march, and from time to time I glanced across at them when the moonlight glinted brightly from their armour, still more or less intact in stark contrast to their clothing and skin. As the miles wore on, the disciplined marching seemed to be awakening old memories, drilled deep into their psyches from years of training. Every so often, they would shake their heads and abruptly attempt to correct their strides, and I have to admit the sight amused me; stumbling corpses attempting parade. At length, as I called a brief halt, the foremost turned to the others and waved two to the back. Another he dragged bodily forward by the epaulettes, and he continued to rearrange them until he appeared satisfied with the formation.

I nodded my approval as the troop moved forward in a more orderly fashion. Already I was impressed with their rate of recovery and the initiative and cohesion they showed. I had indeed chosen well.

We wandered on through the night, looking for a likely spot to make base, until at last the thicketed woods opened onto a clearing. Moonlight lanced between secretive clouds and picked out highlights in the metal embossed onto the surfaces of the Pillars of Nosgoth, and my shoulders slumped. There were no natural caverns nearby in which to seek safety from the dawn, and the likelihood of finding vampiric allies in this region was remote to say the least. I was about to lead my blind, shuffling party onwards when a new thought struck me. I hastened to ascend to the rounded platform in the centre of the circle and I began to look around, imagining walls and hallways and vaulted roofs above the broken stumps of the Pillars. I laughed aloud, and the sound of pure malice echoed through the deserted ruins. Here, on this scene of ultimate corruption, at the very crux of my madness, I would plant the seeds of my empire.

Meanwhile, my newborns stood dazed before the broken grandeur of the Pillars, milling around uneasily as though lost, or beset by some superstitious fear.

I called them to attention and informed them: "Here we will make Sanctuary."

"When the underworld freezes over!" The rude interruption came from an armoured knight bearing the sigil of my ancient nemesis, who strode into the clearing with a small group of likewise armed companions.

I smiled grimly at him. "Today is a cold day in Hell."

"This is holy ground, vampire, you'll not ..." he broke off as his poor eyesight finally enabled him to recognize me. "You! To arms men, it's the parasite himself, the carrier of the disease!"

I recognized this zealot at once. He had been among those who had conspired with my treacherous kin to murder me. His comment about 'healing deconsecrated flesh' echoed in my mind and I laughed openly at him once again. It felt good.

"Surrender to us now and we will give you absolution before you die." The knight was hunched before me, a broad sabre clutched in a two-handed grip. I could smell the sweat and the fear on him from ten yards away.

"Does it not trouble you that the leader of your cause is no more?" I asked, watching his reactions closely. "What reason have you to carry on his fight without him?"

"He may be slain, but his memory remains. Everything he stood for is embodied in our Code, and as such he is never truly gone." The knight recited the words as though reading from a script. Despite the lack of emotion in his delivery, I ground my teeth and snarled. The last thing I wished now was to be reminded that the remnants of the Sarafan Lord's empire still thrived.

"Faugh! What foulness have you dredged up now?" he demanded, indicating my hollow-eyed childer, "Your progeny betray your failing strength, leech - they look half dead!'

I leaned back against the Pillar of Time and folded my arms. "Until an hour ago, they _were_ dead."

The knight spat scornfully at the ground at my feet, giving my new recruits one final appraisal before his face paled to a shade lighter than that of bleached paper, and crumpled in disbelief.

"I know that armour ..." his voice was a whisper, while his eyes goggled as he perceived the depths of my blasphemy. "Monster! They were Saraf..." he never finished his sentence. I tore out his throat before my newborns could hear. I let the moments tick by in silence: had they heard? Did they now comprehend the extent of my sacrilege? More importantly, if they did, with whom would they side in the inevitable clash? Wasting no time, and with every ounce of will I could summon, I urged them to battle.

"Tear out their hearts!"

There is nothing quite as invigorating as watching a fledgling's first taste of battle. They are more agile than even they realize, and this often catches them unawares. However, their raw hunger for blood more than compensates for any puerile acrobatics they perform, and the knights, though fully armoured and well-trained in dispatching my kind, had not a chance in hell. Since I had not had time to find them weaponry, they were forced to resort to their claws and teeth – not that they would have used any other means, even had they been available. I remember those feelings well. The Thirst is an insidious drive, quite unlike any other, and nothing will satisfy but the sensation of soft enemy flesh rending under bright, new claws. I watched as the nearest tore off his victim's armour in a series of frantic tugs, and I was reminded of an overexcited child opening a giftwrapped present. His movements were almost clumsy as he stabbed his talons into the man's chest and raked open the abdomen, then burying his face in the resulting morass. Presently, another came and knelt before me, his face liberally smeared with blood, his expression eager. He offered me a heart on bended limb in a literal display of obedience. I took it from him with an approving smile and feasted on it before my new warriors' fervent gaze, further confirming the relationship of Master and subjects.

At my word, they fell to feeding again, their natural instincts as well as my own inherited Thirst propelling and guiding their every move. Presently they rose again, the stench of exposed innards drifting rank and sweet on the warm night breeze. Already they had begun to change physically: the skin had lost its leathery, wrinkled appearance, and the semblance of flesh and muscle was starting to appear beneath. Several of them now had eyes, and these shone bright gold in the moonlight. Presently, my own gaze was drawn to the first-raised of my childer where he stood to one side in deep concentration. As I watched, he clenched his fists and stared mesmerized as the claws split his skin and spilled blood. He seemed confused, and I could hardly blame him. It is something of a shock when, for the first time, your wounds heal instantaneously, and the deepest cut causes only minor annoyance. One soon gets used to it.

With his hands still dripping precious blood at the base of the Pillars, he turned his questioning gaze on me and asked, "Who am I, Lord?"


	4. Chapter 4

There is one question that strikes fear into the heart of every being who sires offspring. It is a question that every son of man, at some stage in his development will ask of a parent, an elder, a friend. It is not always phrased in the same way: "Who am I?"; "Why am I here?"; "What is my purpose?"; nevertheless, it is a question that cannot go unanswered. The answer is key to every individual's fundamental drive to establish his sense of self-awareness and self-worth, and to give his life meaning. Over the millennia, humankind has invented a plethora of convenient and self-serving responses: "Your purpose is to carry on the family line"; or "to fend for the others when I am gone"; or "to serve the gods", none of which excuses tend to appease those who have abandoned all mortal familial bonds, crossed the boundaries of death, and found out that the gods – if they do exist - are keeping extraordinarily quiet.

The child has yet to be born who has not asked that question at one time in its life, and my corpse-children were no exception.

"Who am I?" he asked, this one-time hunter and destroyer of my kind. The light of curiosity was burning fiercely in his eyes, kindled by his burgeoning intelligence, and the need to put a name and a function to the shell in which the mind resided. I did not doubt that all recollections of his past life were gone, lost irretrievably to the indifferent aeons. It had been hundreds of years that he had lain cold in his grave, and the memories stored in the brain had turned to dust with the grey matter. The intelligence that now inhabited the body, the soul that I had stolen from the underworld, had no tie or connection with the knight who had owned the corpse. If I had needed further proof of my newborns' amnesia, their willingness to turn on those they would once have called 'brothers-in-arms' soon put paid to any doubts.

While I had been considering my answer, I noticed that the six had finished their ravaging of the Sarafan bodies and had grouped together before me. All but two displayed that self-same curiosity that had caused their brother to break his silence and utter his first words. These stood a little way behind the other four, wringing their hands as though they could shake loose their claws, and picking at their teeth as though they found the structure of their mouths distasteful.

It is never easy, being born. Living young go from a place of warmth, seclusion and safety to the cold light, where their senses are battered by a million new stimuli, none of them welcome. So it is for the undead. These creatures' souls, set adrift in the Abyss for untold lifetimes had existed in a peaceful state of semi-awareness as beings of light and discorporate energy, their essence free of all restraints. Then to be rudely forced into corporeality, to be imprisoned within a cell of flesh and assaulted with all the crude and foul input of the baser senses, magnified and enhanced a thousandfold by their vampiric abilities...I could only imagine how unpleasant these first hours would be for them. I called the errant pair to order and addressed them all as one.

"Know now that I am Kain, and that I have called you from your eternal rest to serve me in the battles that are to come. Already you know this," I added, indicating the remains of the knights who had attacked us. "Though your bodies may seem weak and decrepit now, within the next phase of the moon, and provided you continue to feed as you did today, you will have strength beyond the imagining of mortal men. This I have given you, and as such, you owe your allegiance – your very existence - to me."

They shuffled uneasily, and those who had eyes and functioning lids blinked as rotted synapses fired and misfired, trying to make sense of my words.

"I have called you forth for a specific purpose. This land of Nosgoth is blighted and corrupt, its people weak, ripe for conquering, and this you will do. You will go forth from the Sanctuary we will build to pillage and burn, desecrate and devour; you will make the leaders of men crawl on their knees and beg for mercy – but this you will not give. In my name you will bring down the kingdoms of man and leave the land free for my uncontested mastery."

For the first time since their rebirth, my new recruits glanced at one another, gauging their companions' reactions, silently seeking the opinions of their peers. He who had held the title of Grand Inquisitor alone met my gaze unflinching, eyes narrowed, calculating our chances perhaps – or calculating his? I continued as though I had not noticed.

"Do not be fooled – this will be no easy undertaking. There are many who would seek to harm you, and some who might succeed. Mortals will fear and hate you for your superior strength and abilities, for here the strongest hold sway, and power is taken and sustained by force and might. In these first days, you must be wary, for you are few and your strength is not yet at its peak. In time, however, your strength will increase, our company will grow, and all of Nosgoth will be ours for the taking."

I had not answered the question. It was no mere accident that I had not told them who they had been. I had dissembled, like any politician seeking his voters' cast, and instead told them who they would become. For now, their numbed and confused minds would be satisfied with this answer, and by the time they had evolved enough to ask the more pertinent questions, I would have ensured their unswerving devotion to me. Blind loyalty precludes the need for answers. Religion proves that.

I named them then, by way of compromise. I approached them in turn, and watching each warily while I did so, I uttered the name that had been engraved in reverence on his coffin. There was a light nod of acceptance from each as I spoke the name aloud, but nothing more; not a flicker of recognition from any one of them. Now, for the first time since I had stolen into their sepulchre and committed those acts of damnable sacrilege, I allowed myself to relax. I had voiced the only words that might have triggered an adverse reaction in their purloined bodies, and they had remained stable. It was the final gauge of my success in the most daring and potentially fatal plan I had ever conceived.

The next few weeks were as something from a dream. Everything that had been denied me, everything that had disappointed me in my previous attempts at raising an army was entirely lacking from my experiences with these men. They understood and could follow orders, and were able to work of their own volition without my supervision at every juncture. Furthermore, they worked without complaint, whether the task I set was to move boulders or chop logs, or to raze a nearby village to the ground and massacre all the inhabitants. They seemed to understand that we were working towards a higher purpose, something that reached far beyond any of the mundane tasks I set them, and as such they worked with a will.

The erecting of my Sanctuary, however, was not proceeding as fast as I would have liked, and the unfinished structure meant that we had to travel miles to safety before each dawn, abandoning our work to the unpredictable caprices of fate and man for half of every day. To facilitate faster building, and against my better judgment, I created a small team of undead labourers from local peasant stock. I told myself that they would be able to lift much more than forced human captives could, that they could work with my new recruits in comparative safety, and be disposed of when the work was done. The truth was, I could not stand, even then, to be reduced to such a miniscule following, fierce and loyal as they were already proving to be. I wanted an entourage, a bevy of slaves at my beck and call. An Empire. It had always been my dream.

Our undertaking was fraught with hindrances, however. During the day, the Sarafan would come and undo much of the work we had undertaken in the night, and for a while it was clear that we did little but take two steps forward and one step back. At length, our lack of progress began to gall me, and together with the more lucid of my children, I began to plot a counter-attack. One would think that, being immortal, we would have eternity to scheme and plan, and to seize the optimum moment for our attack, but time was truly against us. The longer I permitted the Sarafan to hinder our efforts, the more opportunity they would have to muster their forces and continue to sabotage our work. No, our strike had to be pre-emptive, and it had to be made without delay.

I was far from certain that these recently-raised were up to the challenge, but needs must, and since I would never stoop to covert infiltration myself, I could demand no less of my lieutenants. Thus, I commanded a direct assault on the local barracks. Six men against sixty. The odds were long, but I had been forced into a corner by a combination of Sarafan persistence and my own stubborn reluctance to face the enemy in anything other than a head-on confrontation. As I gave the order, I locked eyes with Raziel to impress upon him the importance of his mission, and was met with that same coldly calculating glare I had seen before. The slightest flaring of his nostrils, and the barest curling of his upper lip left me in no doubt of his opinion of me. I refused to acknowledge it.

"And will you be accompanying us on this ... _crucial _mission, my Lord?" he asked, his tone envenomed.

I ground my teeth. It had always been my intention to go with them, to marshal their forces and guide them through the assault. Raziel's words insolently implied cowardice on my part, as though I were sending them in alone to do my dirty work.

"_You_ will accompany _me_." I retorted, instantly wishing I had not risen to the bait. I had allowed him to belittle me. I shook off the ridiculous feeling by striding from the shelter of the Pillars and out into the well-trodden road that led to the barracks, trusting only to the hope that my influence was already strong enough to compel to follow. Presently, I was greeted with the reassuring sound of six sets of booted feet marching in orderly rhythm behind me, and I relaxed once more.

I called a halt on a rough earthen bank downwind of the soldiers' mess, and for a while I bade them stand and absorb the foul stench of burnt animal and pulped vegetable, to remind them of the degeneracy of their intended victims. The sounds of carousing carried on thin breezes to twitching ears, and one or two chuckled aloud. Already they had come to appreciate how alcohol weakened and disoriented their prey.

At my signal, we marched straight up to the front door, almost surprising the life out of the night watch. I accorded him the merest flicker of attention as Rahab, in his usual position on the left flank, gutted him where he stood. The group barely broke stride. I stopped again before doors that rose up twice as high as a man, strengthened by solid bars of iron, and I waited. At that instant, Dumah and Turel stepped forward from either side of me and slammed their palms against the doors. The barriers juddered inwards, toppled instantly by their nascent strength. As the dust blew up into clouds before the astonished faces of all those within, I walked calmly over the threshold with my six-man army in my wake.

**Author's Note**:

Thanks so much for the reviews so far, I really, really appreciate them, and I'm glad people have been enjoying. Sorry it's been coming so slowly – that should change over the next few weeks (fingers crossed).

I amended the reference to the Elder God in the last chapter- as several people pointed out, Kain wouldn't have known him then. wanders off to revise the Nosgoth timeline again


	5. Chapter 5

Inside the barracks, fifty-nine men whose hands were engaged with ale, dice or the odd wench (or some combination of the three) stood staring at us in utter disbelief. Wasting no time, I motioned my followers forward and took up a position wherefrom I could watch the proceedings in safety: although my strength was returning after the ill-advised creation of my makeshift labour-force, I was still far from at my best.

Like a wave bristling with armaments of war, they surged forwards to break upon the shoal of unprepared Sarafan, and I closed my eyes momentarily to bask in the flume of red spray that their eager claws released. From that moment, the game was on: the foxes had been set loose in the chicken-coop, and I was already relishing the sight of my chosen taking such obvious delight in their duties.

The last-born of my kin, Zephon and Melchiah, had taken to working together, and they were even now forcing a bloody path through the left hand side of the crowd. Where Zephon's careless blade sent a survivor spinning in his wake, Melchiah could be there to mop up the leftovers, and dispatch the unfortunate in ways that ensured the utmost suffering. As if I were in any doubt, the enthusiasm they lent their death-dealing strokes, and their random cackles of delight made it clear how much they were enjoying their work. In their wake lay a bloodied trail of splintered tables, spilled tankards and dismembered bodies. Sometimes even the youngest can surprise.

Dumah and Turel too had found ways of co-operative fighting that went far beyond anything I could hope to accomplish myself – I have ever been a loner. I had found Rahab to exhibit the same quality in the brief time that I had come to know him, and although he might not have the advantage of a cohort to watch his side or his back, his aptitude for stealing amongst the shadows and catching his prey unawares was nigh on unmatched. He apparently savoured, as I had in my younger days, the unique flavour of fear and adrenaline that tinges the blood of those taken by surprise. Though his methods might be less overtly offensive than the majority of his brethren, he was none the less deadly in combat for his choice, and his attitudes were more heartless than all save one other: Raziel.

Every good general knows precisely which move each of his soldiers should make during every instant of combat. With Raziel, his movements were so in tune with those I would have him perform that it was almost as though he could pick up my thoughts, and act upon my every tactical instinct. To this marvellous martial intuition he added his own ferocious flair. From the first forays the group had made under my supervision, his raw skill and complete lack of scruples on the battlefield had filled me with a species of reluctant pride. To say that in combat he was effortlessly graceful; that his strike was devastating; that his lack of mercy was inspirational would be understatements of the highest magnitude. Simply put, where Raziel went, death followed.

Despite my confidence in his prowess, I was far from assured of his fidelity or his subservience, and so I remained understandably wary. From time to time, while directing the attack and calling out commands, I would catch my first-born watching me with narrowed eyes, and more than once I had seen him hesitate in carrying out my orders. Although as yet he had not overtly disobeyed, I was beginning to wonder if I had made a mistake in leaving him at the head of the group, in the position he had assumed at his rebirth. Until now, I had considered his previous standing and his subsequent displays of leadership justification enough to give him this nominal command. It was a snap judgment I might come to regret - but these were concerns for later. We had come to this place with definite purpose: to exact revenge for damage already done, and to ensure that those Sarafan who had been foolish enough to remain in proximity to our new home would trouble us no longer.

As if we needed reasons.

As if this attack amounted to anything more than a sentient extrapolation of blind instinct.

The thirst compelled me back then, far more than it has in recent centuries. Although I might make eloquent excuses to myself about the nobility of my actions in eradicating this particular concentration of Sarafan: how I was making them pay for hundreds of years of vampire oppression; how I was extinguishing the last of the Hylden monstrosity's faith; how I was ensuring that my newborns had sufficient experience and strength before I instigated all-out war, I know with hindsight that I was fooling myself. I wanted blood and I wanted territory; food and shelter, the most basic needs of any being.

By now, the melée was approaching bedlam. Having truly unleashed my newborns for the first time since their rebirth, they had apparently decided to take advantage of their every moment of freedom, and to make up for lost time. Everywhere I looked, I saw sights to make a teacher proud: there were corpses smeared up the walls in bloody, gristly streaks, while elsewhere bodies sagged limply over iron wall sconces, their life forces extinguished in a vivid blend of blood and fire. Women ran screaming through the thick of the battle, often coming in for blows intended for others, their screams adding a shrill tremolo to the bass din of stamping feet, and the percussive clash of swords. Windows were shattered, banners shredded, and a hundred small blazes burned in smoke-filled corners, assuring me that the fate of the barracks was sealed. As I lowered my gaze, I noticed that the cracks in the tiled floor were slowly being inked in red, and I could almost taste my victory in the blood-hazed air. Presently, a mangled body came tumbling to land like a crumpled marionette at my feet, and as the tang of dying flesh reached my nostrils, I could stand by passively watching no longer. I threw myself into the fray.

Leaving the Reaver secured at my belt, I waded forwards in search of an enemy worthy of my attention. Presently, I found one. He was holding off Melchiah's lateral thrusts with one sword, while a practiced flick of an ornamental main gauche prevented Zephon from engaging him from the other side. They had occasionally found a way through his guard, judging by the slashes in his jerkin, but still he held them off. I impressed my presence upon the two subtly, and they drew back in respect, leaving the man to me. I raised my hands, palms upwards and twitched an eyebrow at him. Nodding slowly, he put away both weapons and adopted a stance I had often seen humans affect when getting ready to fist fight. He began to move around in a circle, seeking a way through my guard and feinting and jabbing as though to fool me into making a move. I studied him as he put all his energy into this pointless display, reminding me so much of the rest of humankind, endlessly pouring their hearts and souls into unachievable goals. Presently, I tired of him, and when he next jabbed at my side, I twisted and caught his wrist, wrenching his arm towards me with all the speed and violence I could muster. It is a testimonial to my weakness at the time that his arm remained attached at the shoulder. Instead, my wrench bought him stumbling against me, and I was already savaging his throat by the time he sank his dagger into my chest.

It hurt. I will not deny that, even now. In those days I was more demanding of my body and my physical resources than was wise, but I was driven by my own impatience, by the need to project my superiority - my infallibility - to the world at large, and so the wound **could** not hurt. I withdrew the dagger while the knight slumped to the ground, and tossed it disdainfully after his dying form. I moved on, trying to ignore the throb in my ribcage, and the blood I knew full well was coursing down my skin, and edging under my clothing, the wound refusing to clot. My next entanglement earned me a slash across the thigh, and I cursed myself for refusing to wear full armour in my vanity, and my wish to assume a fearless front. I finished the culprit in short order, but another rose to take his place. I was I the thick of it now, and enemies lurked on every side, armed with whatever had come to hand. I took another graze to the shoulder in my next encounter, and as I moved to engage another, my heart pounding fiercely from the strain, I found him whipped out of my grasp.

My head shot up to see Raziel twisting the man's neck in a casual but precise manner, as though demonstrating the method to a green recruit. I bit down on the snarl that threatened to curl my lip and moved to grab another. This one met a like fate before he could lay a glove on me, and, my condition notwithstanding, I could stomach the interference no longer. I drew myself upright and gave him an order.

"Take Melchiah and Zephon and flush out that side passage," I commanded, indicating a darkened corridor that led deeper into the complex.

He glanced at the target, then back at me, brushing excess blood from his hands so as not to sully his sword hilt on his next draw. "There is much to be done here before we start looking for fresh enemies, Sire."

The snarl broke out, unbidden. "I did not ask for your opinion, Raziel. Obey me." I reinforced my wish by allowing my eyes to blaze red, a trick I have found useful in influencing others over the course of the years. He hesitated, the working of his jaw suggesting that his new teeth were coming in for a grinding. A moment later, he nodded curtly and stalked off in search of his companions.

I hissed out an exasperated breath and assuaged my temper by exterminating a few more of the human knights, my strength waxing and waning with each feed and each wound, until I halted once more to appraise the situation. To my shock and disgust, I found that Raziel and the others were still in the main chamber finishing off the remainder of the knights. He had disobeyed me outright. When he saw me glaring at them, he sent three of his companions to reconnoitre the passage. They found it hard going and were unable to win through without calling on the assistance of the entire party. At length, those sequestered in the inner fortified areas of the barracks were ousted, and the place was proclaimed free of danger.

Now I had an insurgent to deal with. My first instinct was to break him – publicly - to make an example of him to ensure that no-one would follow his lead in this respect as they seemed to in almost every other - but in that moment I had a flash of insight that spawned a modicum of understanding. I still remembered then what it was like in the first days; the elation of testing new powers, of exploring new strengths, and the difficult task of learning to control them. In those natal years, it is almost as though you have been given control over the moon and the stars; you feel as though nothing is – or should be – beyond your reach, and moreover, the dark forces inside compel you to fight for it all.

Empathy notwithstanding, he had undermined me, and the dynamic of the group might already be shattered beyond repair. I could not allow him to get away with it.

While my lieutenants fell to feasting and looting what was left of the occupants of the outpost, I drew the culprit aside to where the others could not hear. When we were secluded in the shadows of a blood-splattered alcove, I imposed myself between him and his brethren so that he would not feel he could draw on their support. My hand curled around the hilt of the Reaver. From that distance he would not miss the low hum of power that always accompanied its joining to me, and it would likely make him uncomfortably aware that he had left his own weapon jutting from a Sarafan officer's corpse on the top table.

"Why did you not take them into the passageway as I told you?" My growl shook loose some crumbling brick dust that hissed to the floor at our feet. His face showed no sign that he had heard either the falling stone or the Reaver's awakening.

"We were setting ourselves up for an ambush – we couldn't have opened the door at the far end, so the corridor was a blind alley. It was better this way..."

He let the sentence trail off, but he need not have finished it aloud. I had erred and we both knew it. I would have seen that deadly glitch in my plan if I had been thinking clearly. The trouble was, I had been so intent on taking what I had come for, and ensuring that Raziel followed my orders that all other concerns had been obscured.

Much as it galled me to admit it, I could not punish him for my own wrong, and so I nodded and stepped back to allow him to return to his fellows. I would not make an issue of his disobedience now – partly because I knew I was in the wrong, but mostly because only then would his insubordination become a real problem. I had gained a poison chalice when I had resurrected this one, for he was a fighter and strategist worth ten of the best soldiers I had ever commanded. Nonetheless, as I watched him rejoin his brethren, I vowed that if he gave me one more reason to question his motives, I would content myself with five lieutenants.


	6. Chapter 6

With my first major victory at the head of my new lieutenants secured, and the imminent threat of the Sarafan removed, I was free to concentrate far more of my time and energy on the construction of my home. After all, every Emperor needs a seat of power from which to issue his commands! Before long, with the addition of the new labourers, and my reluctant acquiescence to dirty my own hands, we reached a point where we felt we could safely rest within the Sanctuary walls during the daylight hours, and from that moment on, we were in residence.

On the second day of our stay, however, a small band of overconfident Sarafan attacked. I could only assume that they were a search party, sent out from another stronghold to ascertain why communications had not been forthcoming from the local barracks. I cannot say for certain: I did not bother to interrogate them. They had no doubt seen first hand the destruction my servants had wrought among their brethren - we had left the warrior priests' barracks looking like a slaughterhouse. Driven by a divine and ill-conceived need for vengeance, they tracked us down, broke down the temporary pine door in the unfinished outer wall, and thundered heedlessly towards our inner sanctum.

With not a thought for stealth, the four of them came tearing into the chamber we had excavated beneath the pillars, sullying the perfect darkness with their gaudy torchlight, insulting the silence with their ardent battle cries, but even during our hours of rest, they were no match for my new lieutenants. The daylight hours took far less of a toll on them than it had from even the oldest of my previous followers, and I allowed them to surge forwards and defend their new home, while I watched and evaluated from a distance, to praise or criticize their tactics later.

Raziel took down the first Sarafan to enter the building, roughly shouldering his way past his lesser brethren in his eagerness to spill blood. After a brief struggle that caused a great deal of unnecessary pain to the human knight, the mortal was beaten, and the eldest of my new kin suckled gleefully at his throat. Presently, he sank to the ground, still supporting the weakly struggling human, and laid his body across his knees. The knight, still conscious, though barely alive, lay with his chest hitching as the death throes approached, unable to muster up the strength to even flail an arm at his killer. Lost in introspection, Raziel raised a claw to his lips, drew it away to look at the blood, then glanced again at the man's face, his own handsome features contorted thoughtfully. He was the still for so long that I marched over and stood before him, barking an impatient demand at his immobile form.

"What ails you, soldier? Have you forgotten how to deal death?" A titter echoed through the room, and was quickly swallowed by someone not yet bold enough to be sure whether or not he would be punished for daring to ridicule my first-born. Raziel then asked me something completely unexpected. It was not the first time he had surprised me – nor would it be the last:

"Can he be brought back?"

Having assured myself that the other two knights had been suitably and painfully dispatched, I gave him my full attention. "Why, Raziel? Have you been afflicted with a sudden attack of pity?" His brothers took advantage of his rare moment of discomposure and laughed scornfully at him. It still makes me smile when I remember how he made them regret that, later. With the human - still clinging to life by the thinnest thread - grasped lightly in one arm, he rose to look me in the eye, and addressed me plainly.

"Your plans are ambitious, Lord Kain." I bristled instantly at the unspoken inference of 'over-ambitiousness', despite the respectful tone of his voice. Nonetheless, I allowed him to carry on. I would let him say his piece, then make an example of him. I rarely passed up the opportunity to reinforce my mastery of them, even then. His next words, however, stayed my hand.

"But you weaken yourself to create followers who do not live up to your standards. You said yourself that those you created from poor stock are useless." He indicated the shaking creature dangling from one arm with a tilt of his head. "_This_ one is strong."

So that was his intent. He wished me to resurrect the man. "Give him to me," I ordered, already wishing that I had commanded otherwise. I was still suffering greatly from the quantity of blood I had expended in creating my human work-force, and more so from the recent battle - but even now I could not afford to show weakness, not for a second. I moved to take the convulsing body from him, but he snatched it out of my reach with a shake of his head.

"We need you at full strength if we are to succeed in the momentous tasks you have set us."

I sensed his companions' shock at the audacious nature of his statement, several of them drawing back from the confrontation they believed to be brewing. I retained my semblance of control by asking him in a rather condescending and sarcastic manner, "Then what do you suggest?"

He tensed, as though expecting a blow for his answer. "I wish to attempt it myself."

That answer, unprecedented and unexpected as it was, rocked me back on my heels. Although I know I should have expected that one of my childer would one day ask this of me, I was, at that time, unprepared. None of my peasant-kin would ever have dreamed of asking such a thing, not even Ivan, who was strong in both mind and body, and had lived almost five years – a record for one of my progeny. Now Raziel, himself a newborn of no more than three weeks, wished to make the attempt. My growing pride was almost instantly stifled by my as-yet-unabated paranoia. This was unforeseen – could it therefore be a ruse?

"You are aware of who and what he is, this warrior priest?" I asked carefully, my eyes narrowing as I tried to detect his true reaction. If Raziel had the slightest suspicion of what I had done to him and his brethren, he might be using this opportunity to try to trick a confession from me. I needed to tread carefully. I had not sought living recruits from amongst the Sarafan, for any number of reasons, not least of which was the fear it would evoke memories in my lieutenants that my rational mind knew could not be. Now Raziel had brought about a convergence of circumstances that made those fears real.

"Does it matter?" he asked. His eyes betrayed no ulterior motive, his face blandly neutral as always. He wore that mask of neutrality even in the thick of battle, and as yet I had not managed to see past it – but I would learn. "He will have no memory of his past when he reawakens," he continued, then pausing to spear me with a look that was an open challenge to me in the presence of his peers. "Unless of course you balk at the blasphemy, my Lord…"

Abruptly, the tension at last was shattered, and I fairly roared with laughter. I threw my head back and laughed until my chest shook with it. Here was I, fearing an uprising against the maniac who had deconsecrated martyred Sarafan flesh, when in reality, my ambitious and eager followers desired only to follow in my footsteps and do exactly the same themselves! They were truly the blood of my blood, these corrupted saints, and though the irony was not lost on me, I was exceedingly pleased to have the situation resolved in such a fitting way. Finally, wiping a bloody tear from my eye, I chuckled, "You may try,"

Then, as my gaze fell on the still-living Sarafan, I was stricken with the need to fulfill one final desire before I could give him to my son. As I looked at him batting feebly at Raziel's arm, and tugging weakly at his confining fingers, I was reminded of who he was and what he signified. Embodied in this dying mortal flesh was the essence of the faith of my enemy, the faith that caused his memory to live on despite his defeat and subsequent death at my hands.

"But first, give him to me."

Reluctantly, he handed over the knight, his face pinched, puckered and showing a are hint of emotion. He feared I would take the knight for myself, despite my assent. I knew then that he truly wanted this, with all his black heart; to be first to follow my example, the first to rise above his beginnings the first to prove himself ultimately worthy of my gift. And so I would allow him, but first, I had my own little vendetta with the hapless Sarafan knight. I seized the mortal by the chest-plate and pulled him close, so that he could see in garish detail the otherworldly strangeness of my vampiric features in all their unholy glory. I have always found that this little trick unnerves human enemies in the moments before death, sweetening the kill as they feel the cold of our unliving skin, scent the pall death that surrounds us, and are blinded by the glow of impious intentions in our eyes.

"Renounce the Sarafan Lord," I suggested, though I did not think for one moment that he would acquiesce. He did not disappoint.

"Never," came the gurgling response. He was apparently bleeding internally, his lungs likely filling quickly with liquid. I hoped it would not slur his speech overmuch, and again, he did not disappoint me. "Through our faith he lives on. Kill me, monster, and bring me every nearer to him, for he will welcome me."

I smiled then, for he had spoken the words I had so hoped he would utter. "Know the truth, mortal. The lord you followed was a demon, bent on dominating the land – he used you and your armies to subjugate your own people!" He turned his head from the truth of my words.

"Kill me, demon, I do not wish to hear more of your lies."

"I am not going to kill you," I assured him in a tone that intimated that I had far worse planned for him. "Do you see this, Sarafan?" I asked of him, indicating Raziel - who obliged with a suitably demonic grin. I leaned close and whispered his fate into his ear. "This is your future."

He laughed, coughing up bright red frothy blood as his lungs haemorrhaged their last. I wondered that he expended so much effort on flowery conversation when his final moments were ticking away. Predictably, he had misconstrued.

"The knights of the Sarafan order would take their own lives before they'd allow you to make lackeys of them."

I smiled beatifically at him and idly gouged a claw beneath one of his fingernails – solely to keep his mind focused on the present and the true horror of his situation. "I didn't mean the Sarafan, my friend, I meant you. I am going to let my son turn you." From the corner of my eye, I believed I saw Raziel straighten proudly at my words, though I could not be sure of the reason for his pride.

"This is _your_ future you see before you. Tonight your path changes forever, and you will serve me until I have no further use for you." I turned his head so that he could see my followers in their most inhuman of states, flagrantly tearing apart the bodies of his companions, gorging themselves on their blood, then hurling aside the torn remnants.

I waited until his retching had ceased, then forced him to hear my voice once more. "This is the reward your lord has set aside for you for all your years of faithful service - eternal damnation. Tell me, what kind of bastard would do that to his devoted followers?"

Obviously, the man had no answer for my rhetoric. I flung him towards Raziel's waiting grasp, and mocking laughter echoed through the Sanctuary as my first-born caught his stumbling body nimbly.

I brushed his blood from my hands. "I hope your sacrifice was worth it."

It was impressed upon me then that Raziel had not instantly fallen to his feed. I found him instead staring at me with a look of pure gratitude for the honour he had publicly been granted. Once again, he had thrown me with this unexpected attitude. At that moment, the mental barrier that had existed between us vanished, though whether he had done it intentionally, or whether I could finally see past it now I no longer had cause to be paranoid, I was never certain. Either way, I saw him then in a new light, and he was at last the man I would have seen had it not been for my desperate need to be in utter control. He had never been an enemy, nor a competitor for my title – he had been, in the manner of every good second-in-command, protecting his Lord, and second-guessing his orders when they seemed unwise.

More, I had overreached myself, I knew that. Raziel's calculating stares were well-founded. My orders and my decisions had been lacking in prudence, to the extent where I was endangering the very missions I was proposing, especially in that foolish (although ultimately successful – due largely to Raziel's better judgment calls) attack on the Sarafan barracks. It had not been a vital target, as much as I tried to convince myself otherwise, but every little victory against that hated Order went some way towards assuaging my wounded pride, made some measure of progress towards purging the chains of self-doubt the Sarafan Lord still held on my soul. Pride - ever has it been the most painful thorn in my side, the greatest obstacle in my path.

So it was then, and so it is now.

Raziel was the first to demonstrate that my new offspring had the requisite power to turn a human, partly through his own ambitiousness, and partly through his genuine concern for my continued over-exertions. My previous experiments had barely enough strength to sustain themselves, let alone create others – but in choosing the corpses of these holy knights, I had stumbled upon the solution to my problems. For though it is true that any mortal flesh can be made divine, not all humans make good vampires, and I understood at last that there had to be an impure element in the body to begin with. The truly pure never fully adjust to their new unlives, and so make for poor and short-lived soldiers: the flesh is unwilling. Not so with the Sarafan knights. These sainted purgers of the vampire creed, the very substance of their bodies tainted by the years of genocide, made the most wonderful, devoted followers; strong, heartless and entirely lacking in compunction, no matter what they were commanded to do. I have always been amused by the irony of it all: their cold-blooded zeal in life condemned them to an eternity as servitors of the enemy after death.

In the troubled years that followed, I learned to trust Raziel to second-guess my motives and consequent decisions, and I came to respect his ability to make a judgment call when mine was at fault through the vagaries of my own arrogance. By and by, I would come to trust the others as well, and to understand that in them, I had found a team that benefited from a multitude of individual strengths, while offering a naturally cohesive unit unrivalled in the history of War. From the time I realized we could act together as one entity, we became, in battle, a godlike creature, the avatar of the one who was indeed legion. When I led them into combat against my enemies, we functioned together as one, but were individually the heart, the limbs, the lifeblood of a greater being, where I was its mind, its directing force, and Raziel was its right hand.


End file.
